Alex Casey power ranks the sixth and final week of Celebrity Treasure Island 2024.
We’ve come to the end of another season of CTI, and what have we learned? We’ve learned that Bubbah reps Tony’s Steakhouse harder than any other human on planet Earth. We’ve learned that Christian Cullen is a sullen superstar. We’ve learned that any agonising situation can be overcome with a humble song. We’ve learned to look at this photograph, and every time we do it makes us laugh (or cry because we accidentally left it back in the love shack).
We also learned that JP Foliaki is the winner of Celebrity Treasure Island. Red, White and Brass? More like Red, White and Gold! Although he had a quiet beginning, the uber-charismatic and endlessly funny multi-hyphenate provided the bulk of the sassy narration this season. When it came to his competitors, he said he would simply hit them with a shovel and run away. When it came to the multiple plot twists in the middle of the game, he simply said this: “plot twist.”
And now, Foliaki has pulled off the biggest plot twist of all, proudly repping Tonga and South Auckland all the way to the $100K finish line for his charity Child Fund. Here’s how it went down.
ELIMINATED: Duncan Garner
Duncan Garner might take the entire cake for most incredible televised transformation this season (and absolutely “hoof” the damn thing, for that matter). “People always told me not to go, so I decided to go,” the broadcaster grinned, reflecting on his decision to come on the show. “It’s a detox in life, social media, internet, this game brings you right back to the basics of life.” My kingdom for even a modicum of this level of inner harmony and peace.
Alas, the peace wasn’t entirely to last. Garner got snaked by a sandbag snake in the group challenge, which saw him facing off against Millen Baird and JP in the “hang-off-a-rope-in-the-ice-cold-drink” challenge. “Three of us in there, two of us go home, it’s as simple as that, simple maths,” he said. If E=mc squared then trouble=Millen Baird, as the long-limbed actor soon outlasted Garner and the Story host plunged into the water first.
It was an emotional exit, but Garner revealed that he felt closer to his late father – and closer to himself – after his time on the island. Perhaps the real treasure… was inside us all along.
ELIMINATED: Millen Baird
He started the week saying “it would be my pleasure to find this treasure”, but Baird sadly had to walk his javelin legs all the way home on Monday night. After hanging on for dear life to a rope above freezing waters alongside JP Foliaki, Millsy also “did a Garner” and plunged into the icy depths. He also “did a Garner” and ended his journey with some poignant self-reflection. “I’ve learned to love all my flaws and all my strengths,” he said. “I think I’ll come away from this a complete person.” An Outward Bound story indeed, complete with bonus beach boy band shot.
ELIMINATED: Bubbah
“You don’t know: I’m good at stuff,” Bubbah cackled at the start of the week, in the understatement of the century. Coming into the final days with two strong alliances, the “hood princess” of Tony’s Steakhouse was sitting pretty until she was forced to face off against her own grandfather (Christian Cullen) in the most high stakes game of wobbly dominos ever committed to the silver screen. God this was tense.
After nearly completing the full stack of dominos, Bubbah ducked under the plank they were sitting on, which of course knocked them over. It seemed like Cully had it in the bag, until he also knocked his over. So it went back and forth for about 45 minutes, until finally Cully triumphed in a bittersweet win over the people’s princess. “Don’t cry,” he whispered, hugging her in their final moments on the show together. Too late for me Cully, too late for me.
RUNNER-UP: James Rolleston
What a remarkable journey for the boy from Boy. You can’t help but feel like James won a prize just as important as the cold hard cash as he revealed, week after week, his strength and resilience while still living every day with a traumatic brain injury. And he wasn’t going down without a fight. “I’ve only got two grand for my charity, and I’d like to make that 102 grand,” he said after winning the group challenge and being the first to visit the hallowed lover’s shed.
Fossicking about and finding clues and wedding dresses, James uttered an involuntary “OOSH” before tucking into a tin of tuna. But the dream vacation was not to last. A note about the hidden fortune upstream eventually sent James on the treasure hunt with Cully and JP, but some crucial oversights provided insurmountable hurdles. He left his photograph clue behind which gave him a huge delay, and even Lance’s wisdom from the cheap seats couldn’t save him.
RUNNER-UP: Christian Cullen
First of all, sung to the tune of Mr Brightside: Cully out of the cage and he’s been doing just fine.
The smoothest guy on the island began his week reflecting on what a “cool tour” they have had, and figuring out who he would be in the CTI reboot of The Fantastic Four (“I’ll be the invisible guy,” he said). From there, the invisible Cully knocked out Bubbah (who had selected “Jessica Alba” from the Fantastic Four cast) and had to say goodbye to his dearest friend in the game. At least she left him a lovely time penalty rock and a Samoan flag for the final showdown.
Heading into finals, Cully was spinning more sports philosophy yarns from “there’s no tomorrow you have to go hard today” to “it’s not over until the final whistle.” But perhaps he should have embraced the ancient mantra “should have gone to Specsavers” as he was left squinting in confusion at the padlock during the first obstacle. Not to worry through, soon he had made it to the tree puzzle where he handled himself with total composure and grace.
He brazenly copied JP’s homework and used his time penalties to try and take the lead, but ultimately it all came down to The Big Dig. He faked us out a few times when his shovel hit tree roots and hardened earth, and ultimately leaned back on his shovel and watched JP take the win. Cully, you left it all out on the field. In the parting words of the man himself: “ciao for now, won’t see you for three, four, 20 years maybe.”
WINNER: JP Foliaki
On reflection, of course the star of heartwarming underdog story Red White and Brass would pull off the most theatrical and wholesome win possible. JP has spent much of the competition talking about how he feels driven by a bigger purpose, how he’s playing for all his people in Tonga and South Auckland. “Representation is important to me,” he said in week four. “Any dream is more attainable if I can see someone who looks like me that has achieved it.”
This week, he achieved that dream – although it didn’t come easily. “I feel like I’m on Sensing Murder,” he said, pacing around looking for the lovers’ initials carved on a tree. “I’ve walked past this three about 50 times.” As it turns out, 51st time’s a charm, and JP got digging for the treasure alongside Cully. “The last time I dug this hard was at a funeral, and at this stage I want to dig my own grave,” he said. Also, king of The Office glance to camera.
Thankfully there was no need for an undertaker as JP’s shovel eventually hit the side of an old leather suitcase containing all manner of trinkets, and he got to take home $100,000 for a charity that does meaningful work across the Pacific. He hugged Cully, he hugged James, and he thanked his community for being there every step of the way. “I’m glad that I’m doing this for a bigger purpose than just myself,” he said, before letting out a hearty chee-hoo in celebration.
An increasingly manic diary of Hollywood Avondale’s 24-hour film marathon, as it celebrates its 25th anniversary.
I would say that I am a very casual film fan. My Letterboxd aura is incredibly weak, I prefer to watch movies I’ve already seen and I’ve ruined a few dates by falling asleep in the middle of a movie. But two things I am a very uncasual fan of is writing and punishing myself, which is how I found myself at the 24-hour film marathon at Auckland’s Hollywood Avondale theatre on Saturday night.
Believe it or not, this year marks the marathon’s 25th anniversary. Run by film director Ant Timpson, of Bookworm, Mister Organ and Incredibly Strange fame, the event gathers New Zealand’s most hardened cinephiles for 24 hours of pure cinema. But if you’re familiar with Timpson’s work, you’ll know not to expect 14 crowd-pleasing pictures in a row. An event like this is for the tried and true film buffs who have sat through both the worst and best that humanity has to offer on screen.
I’ve never done a film marathon before – I once tried one for the Harry Potter movies, but gave up after the third one (which, by the way, is already 457 minutes of viewing). But I am really good at binge watching TV shows, and I have deep experience in bed rotting, so I reckoned I had a real fighting chance of making it out alive and unscathed.
One thing that should be mentioned is that the marathon’s lineup is always completely secret – it never gets revealed beforehand, on the day nor afterwards. So, in respecting this sanctity, The Spinoff will refrain from naming the titles too, but we’ll drop enough details to help you follow along (I mean, this story would be pretty boring if we couldn’t say anything about the films themselves, right?).
The faces of a woman who has no idea what’s coming to her.
2.25pm: Blanket in hand, pillow in tote bag and a heart full of hope, I arrive at The Hollywood Avondale, my home for the next 24 hours. A passing couple makes a comment that I look well prepared for the events about to transpire. This newbie is fitting in.
2.27pm: I head upstairs to set up camp. I’ve probably spent more time thinking about tactical positioning in this theatre than my long-term survival sustainability plan (which is simply my blanket, pillow, a single protein bar and deodorant). I figure going upstairs will provide enough distance from the screen so that my eyes don’t immediately melt, and it’ll probably be less crowded than downstairs with the loyalists and bean bag holders (you can pay a bit extra to have enough real estate on the ground to bring your own bean bag).
When I get upstairs, an immediate waft of BO, concentrated in one corner of the room, hits my nostrils. Naturally, I head for the other corner, past a woman unpacking loads of tupperware meals from a big box, to sit behind a canoodling couple discussing their Letterboxd profiles.
There’s actually quite a lot of people up here, the overwhelming majority being Gen Xers, and half the seats are already taken. The cult of Ant Timpson is out in full force. Thankfully, I’m at the end of the row and the next person is two seats away from me. I’ve never in my life felt the need to manspread, but now may be the perfect time.
2.35pm: Man of the (24) hour(s) Timpson takes the stage to hype the audience up for the next 24 hours of our lives. He promises that the films we’re about to see “aren’t all winners”.
“We could easily play good films,” he says. “We don’t give a fuck, we’re not about that. We want to excite you … and hopefully educate you.”
2.47pm: The first film, a 70s heist comedy, kicks off. A few cheers and gasps sound off in the audience when the opening credits reveal the actors.
My POV from upstairs.
This is my first time watching a movie as the film Gods intended: on glorious 35mm, film burns and all. I kinda figured a 35mm presentation is the film equivalent of music people telling me to invest in a good record player and vinyl collection – sure, it sounds better for records that were actually made in the vinyl hey-day, but I kind-of feel like my Taylor Swift albums were made precisely for Spotify.
3pm: OK, I’m starting to see the appeal of a 35mm presentation. The picture looks beautiful, and this level of appreciation makes me feel like a bonafide film buff. This is how the lifestyle begins, I guess: frequent Letterboxd posting, then going to 35mm presentations, then gaslighting women on dating apps.
3.33pm: Man, the dialogue and action in this film is really at a minimum so far, and my Gen Z brain is struggling to keep up with something that isn’t all go, go, go. Normally at this point, I would have opened my phone to mindlessly scroll Instagram, but my eyes are forced to pay attention.
4pm: I’ve already eaten too many sweets and am feeling dangerously ill. The empty popcorn box beside me is an unwanted reminder of my ceaseless greed. I make a promise to myself to hold off on more snacks until dinner time – but my hand is already reaching back into the lolly bag.
4.25pm: Just under two hours in, this movie is finally getting interesting thanks to a ridiculous chase scene. I’m not really sure what exactly has been happening up until this point even though I’ve been sitting in the same seat the whole time.
4.50pm: A bit of a sluggish start, but now we’re onto the next film, an 80s flick with James Spader that doesn’t necessarily look good, but definitely looks fun. This is something more so-called film buffs should be considering: does something have to be good to be fun? I think not.
5.15pm: So, who was going to tell me that Spader was (sorry for the past tense, Mr. Spader) really hot? I’ve already seen him in Pretty in Pink and Sex, Lies and Videotape, but my eyes do not recall seeing such a beautiful man.
Is it the PDA of the couple in front of me making me insanely self-aware of my loneliness? Is this the first sign of desperation and mania setting in? Whatever it is, there was definitely something in the water in the 80s, and had I been alive then …
5.45pm: The 80s-isms of this film are completely ridiculous but also insanely wonderful, and if I was watching this at home, I’d probably have turned it off at this point because the cringe is sometimes too much to bear. It’s a lot easier to get through when you have a whole theatre laughing at every stupid line and scene.
6.30pm(ish?): And just like that, it’s film three, a monochrome 60s crime film. Something tells me it’ll be a punishing watch.
One of Timpson’s main pieces of survival advice was to stay hydrated, and I took that very seriously.
7pm: I can’t help but feel like this film is a bit too date rapey for my taste, probably because it’s about men trying to seduce an unassuming woman in her own home. Man, the 60s sure were a crazy time to be a lady. The outfits are pretty cool though.
7.40pm: Hooray! The woman was saved by her husband before she got assaulted. With that fresh on my mind, it’s time for the first marathon break: dinner.
We’re given 25 minutes to feed ourselves, and the Hollywood crowd spills out onto the streets and into the neighbouring park, which soon starts to produce a very herbal aroma. I, in front of a very large crowd of men, head to Shen’s Chicken for a roast meal and scoff it down at record speed on a public bench.
8.05pm: Timpson is back on stage promising an action-packed return. Prayers are sent up to the film gods to ensure the rolls of 35mm don’t skip frames or start a fire. The marathon has gone off without a hitch so far.
8.45pm: I struggle to see how it gets better than this, a Hong Kongese buddy comedy that is supposed to be an action movie, with subtitles which read like gibberish 80% of the time. It’s perfectly goofy hilarity matched with out-the-gate fight scenes, which get played again in slow motion in case we missed the gag. That is pure cinema.
9.45pm: Now, for something completely different: our fifth unnamed film is from the 70s, about a white man and black man in the US and how racism is Really Bad. Take a stab at the title – it could be one of 1,000 films.
11pm: I head to the counter to order a hot chocolate as a morale booster while my body fights to stay awake. Every five minutes, the thought of “what if I just went home?” crosses my mind. I order popcorn as well to incentivise myself to keep going, but it doesn’t take long for that to become a regretful decision for my stomach.
11.13pm: I accidentally took an embarrassingly loud sip of my hot chocolate and locked eyes with the girl in front of me. She keeps looking at me every time I make a noise now. I’m wondering if it’s worth trying to make a truce where I promise not to make any sound if she promises to stop pashing her boyfriend.
Also, I’m actually really enjoying this movie.
11.36pm: We’re on our second break of the night, but this is just a five-minute window to empty your bladder and stock up on more food and drink before the next flick. I’d love some more water, but I’m kind of too tired to get up, and I’ve already made a vow to myself not to eat again until breakfast (my tummy soreness has worsened).
I’m realising there’s quite a bit of real estate right up at the back of the theatre, so I pack up my belongings and make my ascent to the nosebleed seats for what will be the true long haul.
11.40pm: I think the veteran marathoner sitting in front of me in the nosebleeds is glad to have some company. We get to chatting in the wait for the next film, and he tells me he’s been attending the 24hr marathons since their inception over two decades ago.
He comes all the way from Palmy on this pilgrimage, and has been filling out a notebook with his thoughts on each film. He’s far from the only person swiftly whipping out notebooks and iPads after every screening to record their thoughts. They’re putting me to shame.
My new POV from the nosebleeds.
12.10am: It feels like we’ve officially entered the danger zone. We’re watching a Brian de Palma flop that I’m really struggling to get into the swing of, and my eyes keep drowsily closing, and slowly opening, and closing, and opening …
1.25am: The sounds of a woman being murdered wake me up from a slumber I wasn’t aware I was in.
1.39am: I head outside for a vape break in the Hollywood courtyard, where the men are discussing the never ending influence of Hitchcock. If we’re being honest, I don’t really care for cricket.
2am: The theatre goes into “lockdown” until 6am. The workers have finally bunked off so no one will be manning the candy bar, and the doors will remain locked from the outside, so if you leave, you’re gone forever. Good luck, soldiers.
The film we’re seeing now is an 80s horror, though horror is very loose in this sense thanks to the terrible visual effects of the time. But that doesn’t mean the film itself is terrible – it’s perfectly average.
5.57am: I wake up on the floor of the Hollywood, scared I may unknowingly be tripping and convinced that this is a different type of Sunday morning wake-up. Then the sounds of crashing and shouting blow out my ears, and I’m brought back to reality by way of an arthouse adaption of a Stephen King novel.
I don’t know exactly when I fell asleep, but I managed to miss the rest of the horror movie, and now we’re halfway through this shitty film. I’m grateful to have caught up on some sleep, but my body is wondering why I had to do it on a theatre floor.
6.05am: I need this film to end so badly.
6.30am: I’m practising some much needed self care by brushing my teeth, deodorising and taking a walk around the block to try and soothe my very sore tummy. The silence of the street is somehow more overwhelming than being in the theatre.
A 6.30am view of the Hollywood.
6.45am: Unironically, a film about two dorks learning martial arts is the best thing to be watching at this time of the morning after a rough night. Seeing the power of friendship, ambition and kung fu on the big screen is inspiring me. I feel motivated and ready for the next eight hours. I will not let my sore stomach and body destroy me.
7.40am: It’s time for our hour-long breakfast break. I had dreams of walking down to the Avondale markets to stretch my legs and get a feed but a bit of rain is coming in, and my legs don’t want to take me anywhere further than the Hollywood.
7.45am: Breakfast is a chia pot and green tea from the Hollywood bar. I feel my body slowly regaining strength. Timpson and pals are enjoying some prosecco. Whatever gets you through, as they say.
8.05am: We’re back in action, with Timpson announcing the marathon will now be extended with an extra film in celebration of its 25th anniversary. My brain feels ready to explode.
8.45am: There is something strangely enjoyable about this movie. Don’t get me wrong, it’s really awful, but the 90s visual effects are a real sight to behold. Also, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Russell Crowe look so young.
Save me, chia pudding and green tea.
10.11am: I’m terrified I may be at breaking point. After 16 hours in this theatre, my patience for hard seats and hit-or-miss films is really starting to wane. I cannot keep looking at Crowe for much longer. What were once incredible animations showing the extent of 90s whimsy are now just ugly graphics playing on repeat in my mind.
10.53am: I fear my respite is still a while away as our next film is a British 60s flick about a bunch of little kids. Their tiny British accents are really adorable, but I unfortunately don’t care about their sad little lives. What about mine?
11.20am: I’m taking myself on a walk around the block for some fresh air and fresher thoughts. I’m scared that if I watch another scene in which those kids are screaming at each other I’ll finally snap. Also, I’m scared I’m starting to smell.
12.15pm: The veteran sitting in front of me is very excited about this next film, which he promises will be both wonderful and terrible. That’s basically the name of the game here.
12.45pm: Well, I personally think this film is incredible, and I will now be adding “marine horror” to my list of favourite genres. The scenes are shockingly clunky, the main actor is constantly tripping up over something in his monster costume and the deep voice narrating the flick has a Vincent Price in Thriller-esque vibe which is just inherently funny. I’m obsessed. Life has meaning again.
1.53pm: I didn’t take many notes because that film was actually perfect. Outside in the courtyard, my eyes are struggling to adapt to the natural daylight. I’m scared I may be stuck permanently squinting for the rest of my life.
The next film, a coming-of-age movie set in New York, is just kind-of OK.
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2.30pm: We have made it to the 24 hour mark. Morale is low, sanity is even lower. These characters are really getting on my nerves.
2.46pm: My veteran friend is leaving because he has a train to catch, back to the unassuming lands of Palmerston North. “Good luck with your article,” he tells me. I love when people say that because it reminds me of when I wrote for my university student paper.
3.03pm: At this point I’m watching the seconds tick by and trying not to do a runner. My stamina is wearing thin and I make myself a promise: leave after this film. You do not need to see the next one. You have already made it. You are free.
Somehow, I made it out alive (mental and emotional status unconfirmed).
3.30pm: I shuffle out of the theatre with my blanket, pillow in tote bag and a heart hardened by hours in a dark theatre. I feel like less of a loser when I see others starting to leave as well, though we are just a small group of weaklings. I seem to be suffering from extreme brain fog.
6.16pm: I’m in the thick of a 10-step self-care routine which has me scrubbing away any evidence of the last 24 hours of my life when I receive a text from a friend, asking me if I’d made it through. Technically, yes. “Sleep well you mad bitch,” reads their congratulatory text. I will.
